


Baseline

by rageprufrock



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-13
Updated: 2011-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He threw milk at me," Rodney sulks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baseline

"He said no again, didn't he?" Ronon smirks as he says it.

"He's an idiot!" Rodney yells. "He's a idiot who doesn't know the depth of his own idiocy and even as we speak he is rue-ing said depths!"

Ronon smiles fondly. "So not only did he say --"

"He told me yes!" Rodney yells. "He told me yes and had me wait behind the club for him for an hour and then when I reached the ceiling on frustration and need to pee I went back inside the club and found that they were cleaning everything up because he had left!"

"You should give up," Ronon counsels. "It's starting to fuck with your self-esteem."

"My self-esteem has nothing to do with this!" Rodney finishes in a shriek, tossing his bag across the room, where it hits the wall with a thump and slides to the ground—a disaster of back issues of Spin, digital recorders, concert fliers, club schedules, notepads and pens, jewel cases of demo CDs that dirty adolescents shove in his hands as he tries—relatively unsuccessfully—to escape their notice. "What this has to do with is the fact that I am filled with boiling hate!"

Ronon rolls his eyes and wanders out of Rodney's office doorway, and Rodney shouts after him, "Boiling hate!"

In the afternoon staff meeting, Elizabeth touches Rodney's shoulder and sooths, "You're really got to stop taking this so personally."

"He is still bitter over—" Radek stops, frowns, and turns to Ronon. "What was the word?"

"Being punked," Ronon says with a huge, toothy grin.

"Yes," Radek agrees brightly. "Punked by Sheppard again."

Rodney attempts to claw the skin off of his own face to express his frustration, but before he can launch into another lengthy diatribe about how his talent and skills are being wasted and are festering in this sort of work environment, Elizabeth clears her throat and says, "Okay—--tell me what you've got, guys."

Pegasus Records is small and intimate, nothing like the enormous corporate monolith of Rodney's former employers, but in his humblest, most inebriated moments, he knows that he's lucky to be employed at all after he'd fucked up and blown some of the most amazing talent in Canada for more than a decade.

  
*

The first time Rodney heard John Sheppard, he was sitting in a bar looking for truth at the bottom of a glass of whiskey and heard it on stage instead. Sheppard was under a naked light, sitting on a stool and hefting his guitar, sipping water and laughing with the sound crew. He waved thanks when they gave him the thumbs up.

And then he'd stroked his hands over the strings of the guitar and Rodney found what he'd always been looking for.

  
*

"Hey, jackass!" Rodney yells and he watches Sheppard roll his eyes in the distance.

"No means no, McKay," he says placidly as Rodney barrels up to him, furious and panting for breath, putting one hand out to brace himself on a wall.

"You—--you lied!" Rodney accuses.

"It's true," John says with faux sincerity, "I've got to work on that."

"Hah!" Rodney says with great triumph, and digs around his bag to produce a sheaf of paper, crumbled from long-hibernation in Rodney's canvas bag and creased from multiple foldings, but before Rodney can even find a pen with which to stab John's hand and make him sign his name in blood for his past sins, John adds:

"I'm not signing, Rodney."

"You! You!" Rodney sputters, and he barely--—just barely--—resists the urge to slap John around with the contract. "You! You cad!"

John stares at him.

"Okay, wrong word, but still!" Rodney argues. "You miserable, guitar-playing, Johnny Cash listening, mix-tape making cocktease!"

John shrugs his shoulders apologetically, which only makes Rodney want to kill him more.

"I'm just not that into you," he says, putting a hand on Rodney's arm sympathetically. "I'm sure you understand."

When Sheppard turns to leave, Rodney gives into temptation and throws the contract at his retreating figure, though it misses by a mile and lands with a flop on the sidewalk and earns him the bewildered stares of most of the people in front of Strand.

Rodney is starting to think like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, which means he's either got to sign this guy, kill him, or bear his children, and that is a line of questioning Rodney's not entirely comfortable with.

  
*

That first night, right before the really terrible bands had come on, Rodney had shoved depressed teenagers and stoned employees out of his way, left and right, yelling, "Move, move, move! Out of my way!" and burst backstage saying, "Oh my God, oh my God!" until he found Sheppard pulling on a battered leather jacket.

"That was great—--well, it was not bad anyway, —and—--" he'd started.

John had raised his eyebrows. "Did Elizabeth send you?" he asked.

Rodney blinked, twice, and remembered she'd suggested the bar that afternoon and pressed a twenty into his palm, told him maybe he'd find something he liked there. At the time, Rodney thought she was telling him to go buy a hooker, but then--—and, well, given the way Sheppard only looked mostly like a hooker--—maybe she had sent him.

"I—--maybe?" Rodney said. "How did you know?"

John smirked. "You've got that look about you."

Rodney had shaken his head to dislodge the total ridiculousness of that statement and started again, saying, "Look the point is--"

"I'm not interested," John had cut him off. "But thanks for the offer. Tell Elizabeth to cut it out."

And smiling, he'd gone away, leaving Rodney frozen with shock.

Rodney had been pissed when he'd gotten back to the office at just after two in the morning, and he'd gotten pissed at Elizabeth, whom he found asleep in her office in the office and proceeded to yell a whole bunch before she'd said, "But he was good," which shut him right now.

"Well. It. God," Rodney had muttered, and stormed out again.

The second, third, and fourth times Rodney had tried to bludgeon John into signing with Pegasus Records, he'd had to lock a representative from Virgin into a bathroom and slip a guy from Columbia one of Rodney's Ambien to get a chance alone with Sheppard. "If nothing else, you should say yes because I'm starting to drug people to keep your attention," Rodney had yelled.

"That's really thoughtful," John had said.

  
*

"Are you listening to Metric?" Radek boggles.

Rodney continues to lay stubbornly on the floor of his office. "I'm giving up," he declares.

"On John?" Radek laughs, and sits down on Rodney's chair. Radek is a sound engineer. Rodney had no idea why he's always hanging around the office and not the studio. "You wouldn't."

"I am," Rodney says determinedly. "I'll find somebody better. I'll find the next--—"

"Broken Social Scene?" Radek says innocently.

"Do not mention that band to me," Rodney warns.

"But you signed them." Radek smiles innocently. "Almost."

Rodney rolls over onto his side and moans, "Shut up. I hate you so much."

Radek pats his arm kindly. "It is all right, Rodney. At least you will be remembered."

  
*

It's true, Rodney will be remembered. Not everybody manages to have "They punked me!" in response to the perennial exclamation, "Wait—you're the guy who fucked up signing Broken Social Scene!" Regardless the number of times Rodney insists he was just trying to scare them into subservience and the fuckers at Arts&Crafts got them in a moment of vulnerability, everybody just says, "Feist! Jason Colette! Metric!" over and over. And—if they were Rodney's ex-boss—, they also said, "You're fired! Forever!"  
*

On Thursday Rodney pays a guy who pays a guy and whines a whole bunch until people give up and tell him where John lives—--which is a south-facing one bedroom near Washington Square Park, which explains a lot about why John's always at Strand, buying books about guns and bombs and air corps in World War II. Rodney gets to the apartment and sits on the stoop with a copy of the latest Scientific American, three chocolate bars, an iPod, and a fierce determination to stop being the laughingstock of the RIAA. Not that he's all about the RIAA.

"You just don't know when to quit," John says when he shows up. He's carrying groceries.

"This would all be so much easier if you bowed to my will," Rodney explains. "It'll be good, Sheppard. Seriously, it'll be so good. You'll have total creative control. It's a small label, there won't be any of the bureaucratic bullshit you'd have to deal with other places, and we'd never make you--—okay, if you got invited to TRL I think we'd have to make you go but you could totally punch Carson Daley and we would back you up for the lawsuit."

John rolls his eyes and says, "Get off my stoop."

"It's not just your stoop," Rodney argues.

"I don't wanna sign, Rodney!" John bursts out, frustrated. "I don't want to sign with Pegasus. I don't want to sign with Columbia. I don't want to sign with Arts&Crafts—"

"Have those syphilitic whores been sniffing around you?" Rodney demands.

"—I just don't want to sign!" John finishes, irritated. "You're not like, missing the opportunity of a lifetime here or anything, Rodney. I'm just not interested, period, full stop."

Rodney narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "What if I offered more money?"

John throws a carton of milk at him.

  
*

"He threw milk at me," Rodney sulks.

"Oh, thank God," Carson mutters, and when Rodney blinks at him in confusion, Carson colors and says, "Oh. Well. It's just there's been talk. About those white stains on your shirt."

Rodney plucks at his Depeche Mode t-shirt and scowls.

"Look," Carson says, rapidly changing the subject. "Perhaps this is an indication that you should just put it behind you—it's not as if you haven't found other people. Or that they aren't as good at Sheppard. Just—let it go."

"Elizabeth won't let me," Rodney whines.

"Elizabeth already told you it was fine," Carson points out.

"Okay, fine," Rodney concedes. "I don't want to lose."

Carson laughs. "It's not actually a competition, Rodney."

"That's what I thought," Rodney hisses. "And then Arts&Crafts stole Broken Social Scene."

  
*

The next day, Rodney finds a mix CD from John in his inbox, and on a slip of paper tucked inside the jewel case addressed care of Rodney McKay of Pegasus Records is written:

1\. Keane – This is the Last Time (seriously, Rodney.)  
2\. Jem – They (because you're starting to make me paranoid here.)  
3\. Feist – Mushaboom (seriously, I'm okay with my boring life.)

God damn Arts&Crafts, Rodney thinks.

4\. Ringside – Tired of Being Sorry (because I am.)  
5\. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – Details of War (…well, okay, sorry about the milk.)  
6\. OKGO – Invincible (you're not changing my mind.)  
7\. Stars – The Vanishing (and if you keep trying, I'm leaving town.)  
8\. Jamison Parker – Your Song (not as romantic as the title.)

And just as Rodney's about to turn the CD player off, he realizes there's another song.

Rodney puts it on repeat for hours, and lays there on the floor of his office listening to Joe Purdy talk about the rain and the sudden changes in weather.

  
*

"What the hell does your love for rain mean?" Rodney demands.

"Language, Rodney," John says, laughing.

"Lang—oh God, where are all these—stop! Don't touch me!" Rodney says as an after-school swarm of grade-schoolers gather around curiously, tugging at his jacket and his bag and giggling uproariously, ducking behind John and peering out around him until John finally says, "Come on guys, you should get on home." There's a terrifying Children of the Corn moment when all of them chorus, "Yes, Mister Sheppard!" and a share a pause before scattering off, down the steps and sidewalks, melting into the city.

"So you really won't sign?" Rodney asks out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

John smirks. "It's a hobby, Rodney. I'm not even that good."

"You're good," Rodney snaps.

John shrugs. "Fine. So what. I have a job already."

"Teaching fourth grade," Rodney argues. "You should be begging for the debauchery and illicit fame of the recording industry!"

At this, John laughs for real, loud and bright and dear, and adjusting a shoulderbag filled with times tables and fractions, John says, "I'm playing a thing tonight."

Rodney watches his profile for a moment before he yells, "Wait—wait, were you asking me out? With a song about rain?"

John turns around and walking a few steps backwards, he yells into the distance between them, "Come on! Let's get something to eat before you get down to drugging rival scouts."

"I hate losing!" Rodney calls after John.

"We'll figure out a consolation prize," John tells him when Rodney catches up.

"Oh—consolation—" Rodney starts, but falters at the particular curve of John's mouth, and says, "Oh, oh."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Baseline by rageprufrock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406530) by [sk_lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sk_lee/pseuds/sk_lee)




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